


Postscript

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-28
Updated: 2007-08-28
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:18:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley has excellent penmanship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postscript

Crowley has excellent penmanship.  
  
This is a fact Aziraphale has never voiced aloud, and nor has Crowley ever prompted him to do so, but now and again he suspects Crowley has caught him looking over his shoulder with more than mere editorial concern as he dots his Is and slings his Fs.  
  
It usually goes like this:  
  
“‘Conscience’ has an S, then a C.”  
  
“Doesn’t look right.”  
  
“That’s because you’ve spelled it wrong all along.”  
  
“I haven’t.”  
  
“Just there... S - C - I - E - N - C - E. Yes, that’s it.”  
  
And then Crowley works his pen over the page, down and down until he’s got through his entire report without so much as a wayward splotch or a vowel out of alignment. It’s all in the wrist.  
  
His Gs sweep low, then fully round again, like ripe pears. His Vs grin wide with enticement.  
  
Aziraphale watches a moment longer before Crowley blots the page and wipes his nib clean.  
  
“You know,” Crowley drawls, and pushes his signet into the dab of wax. Aziraphale senses his frown. “I rather wonder whether they appreciate all the work that goes into these. Down there, I mean.”  
  
“No. And nor do they Upstairs.”  
  
“Well, that goes without saying.”  
  
Aziraphale swallows a chuckle. “But not in the way you think,” he says. “Gabriel’s taken to origami like a duck to… to--”  
  
“Ink,” Crowley says, and points to the stain on Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “Hope you didn’t get it in the tea.”  
  
Aziraphale sighs.  
  
The invention of ink was a marvel. Really, it was almost too much. And though it did not go unnoticed to Aziraphale that Crowley was somehow able to circumvent the neat problem of blue fingertips while he was not, if he were honest with himself, he would be forced to admit that even the most rudimentary of blends had the distinct advantage of not being clay. Cuneiform was far worse for his fingernails.  
  
Over the years, Crowley has occasionally written to him. Sometimes he leaves a letter on Aziraphale’s desk, or a card at his club. They’re often short -- explanations for having missed a dinner they’d planned, or an account of just how effortlessly he’d accomplished Aziraphale’s heavenly errand that day, and how was that routine possession of his coming along, anyway? -- and informal, though the ones in which Crowley said he’d be away for a time are shorter still.  
  
Aziraphale doesn’t save them. He’s not so foolish as to leave potentially incriminating bits of correspondence round his shop or on his person. But it sometimes takes him a day or two to memorize each note, both for content and placement. It’s the Ss, he supposes, which make the script especially distinctive. The Ys aren’t bad, either.  
  
Once, Crowley had asked, “Why should I write if I’m going be _seeing_ you anyway?”  
  
They’d shared the better part of five bottles that night, and the wine stains on Aziraphale’s shirtfront threatened to be far more permanent than any ink. But still he didn’t quite know what had prompted the question. He certainly never _asked_ Crowley to write.  
  
“No need for redundancy,” he’d replied.  
  
For now, there’s more paperwork. Aziraphale listens to the scratch of Crowley’s pen; the hair at the back of his neck stands on end. Crowley’s fingertips are clean.  
  
And then: “You’re in my light.”  
  
“Sorry.” Aziraphale backs away from Crowley’s shoulder. Then he says, “‘Tourniquet’ has a Q in.”


End file.
